


When Dreams Were Made

by ineachplace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Enemies to Lovers, Eternal Sterek, High School Student Derek Hale, M/M, Musical theater AU, stiles and derek are both seniors, stiles is a jealous idiot :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineachplace/pseuds/ineachplace
Summary: “You’re kind of obsessed with him,” Scott muses, after throwing his 4th tater tot at Stiles’ face to take his attention away from where Derek is laughing with his mouth full over something that Isaac said. Of course he’s eating a goddamn cobb salad. Too sophisticated for the rubbery pizza that Stiles is currently shoving into his mouth.“You guys don’t understand professional rivalry.”“There’s nothing professional about the way you look at him,” Scott mumbles. Whatever. ORDerek Hale always beats Stiles out for the lead in the fall musical, and Stiles hates him. A lot.Except he doesn't. At all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! @ineachplace.tumblr.com

              “Did they put the cast list up?” a girl named Becky has appeared beside Stiles in the hallway, brown eyes wide with terror.

              It’s the only question Stiles has been asked all day. Like they couldn’t just check the choir door themselves or break into Finstock’s office and pry it out of his meaty hands.

              “Not until the end of the day,” Stiles tries his best to smile. She breathes out slowly before throwing him a shy smile and turning around.

              It’s been three days since auditions, and two since callbacks. Stiles has slept exactly 8 hours since then, trying to prepare himself for any and all scenarios.

              “Dude!”  Scott runs down the hall towards him, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth as he wraps his arm over Stiles’s shoulder and plasters himself to his side, “So what’s the news? Are you Vagone?”

              “Valjean,” Stiles corrects, cracking a smile for the first time since this hell week started.

              “So? Are you?”

              “Not sure, but if that prick gets the part over me I’m gonna need you to keep me from ripping my face off in the middle of choir practice.”

              Scott pats his back once, pulling him in closer as they round the corner to the art hallway. “Derek’s got nothing on you. He’s too moody. They’d never voluntarily give him the lead because they’d have to like, actually work with him.”

              But Scott hasn’t heard that kid sing. If he did, he’d understand why this was so terrifying.

              “They haven’t posted th-”

              “STILES! Finstock posted the list, that asshole! He posted it early and I know he did it because he wanted to see people cry.” Erica flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, a satisfied smile on her face, despite the news.

              “You got Fantine, didn’t you?” Stiles beams as Erica nods vigorously before running to hug him.

              “You have to go check! I was so excited when I saw my name that I forgot to look for yours!”

              Stiles can see the crowd of people huddled outside of the door, dozens of fingers skimming the paper that’s been stapled to it.

              “Do you want me to look and tell you?” Scott offers, arm still protectively over his shoulder.

              “No, I can do it. It’s just, you know, the last musical of my high school career, the last chance I have to get a scholarship to NYU, and the last chance I’ll ever have of acting out the part I’ve wanted since I was three. It’ll be fine.”

              Erica links arms with him and Scott follows suit. Together, they push through the crowd of people until they are staring at the paper.

              Stiles starts at the bottom and works up, a trick he learned from his voice teacher. The leads are at the top, so it helps to rule out the disappointment of ensemble.

              He brings a shaking finger up to the paper and moves it up, up, searching for his name bolded beside his dream role.

              Bile creeps up his throat as he hears Erica’s disappointed sigh and Scott’s concern.

              “Hey, Javert’s the better part, anyway,” Erica offers, squeezing his shoulder once. Stiles can’t respond, can’t believe this is happening again.

              “Dude, say something” Scott begs.

              “I fucking hate Derek Hale.”

              “Yes?” A familiar voice calls from behind him. Stiles whips around and looks him right in the eye.

              He must have already known he got the part, because his face is calm and un-surprised as he scans the list.

              “Congratulations,” he says to Stiles with his arms crossed, and Stiles honestly has to resist the urge to punch him in the face right then and there. He’s standing there in his too white, too tight t-shirt, his douche-bag converse. He’s standing there like he’s stood there every single Fall for the past three years, smirking as he gets the lead and Stiles has to fight to not cry in front of him.

              “You, too,” is all he manages to get out, through gritted teeth.

              “See you at rehearsal,” Derek calls over his shoulder as he walks away, pulling the straps of his backpack up higher until Stiles can see the strip of skin above his black jeans.

 

 

* * *

 

 

              The first week of rehearsal is brutal. The air conditioning in the auditorium is still broken, so Derek is shining like some kind of Greek God. There’s a triangle of sweat darkening his gray t-shirt, and Stiles is just…having trouble concentrating. Because Derek keeps correcting his lines, looking like _that_ , and being a _jerk_ and stuff.

              “Stilinski, stage left. Try not to look so constipated, and for the last _time,_ Hale, you’re supposed to look hopeless, not murderous. Get those eyebrows under control before I make you shave them!”

              The vein in Finstock’s forehead is bulging, his track suit just a tragic choice for this temperature and setting, really. Derek clenches his jaw, and Isaac, pretty boy extraordinaire who was literally born to play Marius, is snickering from his seat in the first row of the auditorium.

              It’s a pretty picture, if you’re not Stiles or Finstock or probably Derek.  He’s seriously thinking about quitting when Derek lifts his hands up to fix Stiles’ position, face clouded with anger and determination.

              “Jesus, Derek, I have _legs,_ you know. Wanna carry me off stage while you’re at it,” he spits, pushing Derek’s hands off of him and righting his stance.

              “You’re so fun to be around all the time,” Derek mumbles while Finstock barks orders at the pianist, who looks like she is really reconsidering her choice to be a part of this.

              “From the top of the song!”

              The chorus chimes, and Derek acts out his part while Stiles paces. This isn’t a big deal. He can get through this.

              Or maybe not.

              Derek is pretending to pull on the heavy pretend rope of the pretend ship, back arched as he heaves the imagined weight. His muscles, and _fuck,_ when did he _get_ those, are rippling with every movement, harsh stage lights highlighting every little flex. His cheekbone is an almost blinding point of light on his face, casting a dramatic shadow over the hollow where a normal person would still have baby fat.

              He’s staring. Not even in character, which has been a problem every single year he’s had to suffer on stage with the most pretentious, beautiful douche bag ever.

              “ _Stiles,”_ Derek whisper-yells, elbowing him in the ribs and breaking him out of his reverie, “Your line.”

              “What?”

              “Your. Line,” and he’s such a _dick_ about everything, God.

              Derek’s hunched over, staring at Stiles too intensely, and Finstock’s whistle, which he apparently uses interchangeably between lacrosse and theater, is blaring somewhere in the distance.

              This isn’t going to be good.

 

* * *

 

              They’re four weeks into rehearsal, and Stiles thinks he might actually be losing his mind. He’s forgetting lines, screwing up choreography, and the worst part? He can’t stop _thinking_ about Derek Hale. Can’t stop looking at him, at his face when he’s reading, when he’s taking a test in Health, or throwing a long arm around his little sisters’ shoulders and walking them to their first period class.

              “You’re kind of obsessed with him,” Scott muses, after throwing his 4th tater tot at Stiles’ face to take his attention away from where Derek is laughing with his mouth full over something that Isaac said. Of course he’s eating a goddamn cobb salad. Too sophisticated for the rubbery pizza that Stiles is currently shoving into his mouth.

              “I’m not obsessed, Scott, I’m full of primal rage.”

              “Hate and love are like, twins, Stiles,” Allison says sternly. Well, as sternly as living, breathing angel Allison Argent can manage. It still sounds gentle, though, of course.

              “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I’m in love with Derek Hale? The literal bane of my existence? The opposite of the fire in my loins?”        

              “It’s really boring listening to you deny the rage boner you have for him,” Erica pops an apple slice into her mouth. Stiles just rolls his eyes.

              “You guys don’t understand professional rivalry.”

              “There’s nothing professional about the way you look at him,” Scott mumbles. Whatever.

 

* * *

 

 

              "That's it! Stilinski! Hale! Get over here," Finstock reaches into his zip-up sweater and blows his whistle like he's at lacrosse practice. Stiles has a hand fisted in Derek’s shirt, and he isn’t even sure how or when or why he got so angry, but Derek looks like he’s about to tackle him to the ground in a not-hot way.

              Isaac throws Derek a sympathetic look before the both of them shuffle down the stage stairs to stand in front of Finstock.

              "Watching you two up there is like watching my parents try not to choke each other out at Christmas dinner." Erica barks out a laugh, and Derek shoots her a death glare before she slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. "You two need to pretend to tolerate each other until this behemoth of a musical is over with, do you hear me? Practice lines together. Angry-wrestle each other, take care of a fake baby together, I don't care, but I don't want to see either of you again until you're ready to take this seriously. Now get out of my sight before I make you run laps with Greenberg." Stiles tries to interject, tries to insist that they stay, but Finstock blows the whistle directly in his face every single time he tries to speak until he can't take it, finally storming out of the auditorium with Derek following silently behind him.

              The whistle is still ringing in his ear when he makes it into the hallway, and he flops back against the wall, sinking down until he's cradling his head in his hands and rocking back and forth. He's talking loud to drown out the ringing in his ears, running over certain lines over and over again. The whistle is getting louder, vision going black the way it always does right before a panic attack.

              Derek suddenly crouches in front of him, reaching through the noise and placing a hand on his shoulder, grounding him while he rides it out.

              "It's okay, just look at me, look at me breathe and try to do the same, okay? You're alright, you're safe," Derek's voice is muddy, like he's speaking underwater, but Stiles understands, eyes latching onto Derek's chest and following the rise and fall of it.

              He's not sure how much time passes before he's breathing regularly again. Derek's hand is still on Stiles' shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his collarbone.

              "You still with me, Stiles?" Derek asks. He's smiling, but his eyes are still concerned, the grey blue of them bright in the fluorescent light of the hallway. Stiles nods, feeling like a bobble-head, and he lets Derek help him up from the floor.

              "Thanks for uh, that." Stiles mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

              "No problem."

              Derek has his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels like he isn't sure if he should leave or not. They're silent but it's not hostile, actually? Apparently panic attacks bring everyone closer together.

              "Should we, like, actually do what Finstock says and run lines together?" Stiles is surprised by his question. He had no intention of having any one-on-one time with Derek ten minutes ago. None what-so-ever.

              "I could come over tomorrow, if you're not busy," Derek looks up at him through his eyelashes, eyebrows raised in a hopeful, cautious arch.

              "Okay. Yeah, okay."

 

* * *

 

              Stiles has done a sweep of his room at least seven times since he woke up this morning. His bed is made, clothes put away, and he even plugs in a Glade air freshener so that his room doesn't smell like the inside of a bag of Doritos.

              He doesn't really want to analyze why he's so nervous. Every moment of his Saturday since Derek sent his stupid text from his stupid number, Stiles has been pulling at his hair, pacing back and forth like a madman for the better part of an hour. His dad had unplugged the coffee pot before leaving for work, warning Stiles that if he drank another cup, he’d ground him for a week.

_Hey. On my way. Had to wait to borrow my mom's car. You want a coffee or anything before I get there?_

              Stiles rolls his eyes and he isn't sure why. That was a perfectly acceptable text and completely absent of any condescension. Derek just had that effect on him, apparently.

_Nah. Drank like, an entire pot this morning. Don’t wanna have a heart attack._

_Lol._

              “El oh el?” Stiles imitates, throwing his hands up in quotation marks, “what a douche!”

              Before he can continue talking to himself, his phone rings, Scott’s caller ID (which is him with a dildo suction cupped to his forehead) pops up.

              “Hey dude, what’s up?”

              “Just checking to see if you and Derek have kissed and made up yet,” Scott jokes from the other line. He hears Allison and Lydia in the background, presumably linked at the arms.

              “Uuuuuugh,” he whines, throwing himself down onto the bed like the drama queen that he is, “I don’t wanna do this, Scott. Derek is the _worst.”_

              “Yeah, you keep saying that, man. Like, literally all the time. Even when no one is talking about him. We’ll be in the middle of a movie, and you’ll just be like, ‘you know who sucks? Derek.’”

              “What are you even triying t—“ The doorbell rings before he can finish his sentence. “Scott he’s here I have to go oh my _god_ , bye,” he doesn’t even wait to hear whatever stupid little piece of advice Scott tries to give him before throwing his phone on his bed and practically flying down the stairs.

              “Hey,” Derek smiles, once Stiles flings the door open and leans against the frame. He’s wearing those freaking converse again, tight jeans and, oh, of course, another t-shirt that lets you see _every single_ muscle in his biceps. What a showoff.

              “Hey, man, come on in,” Stiles lets Derek brush by him, holding his breath in panic when their chests touch briefly before Derek is walking past him and looking around the house.

              “I like your house,” he smiles, switching the arm that he’s holding his music book under.

              “Thanks. Uh, we can go upstairs. Practice in my room, or wherever, actually, but my room has good acoustics and I kind of spent a long time cleaning it because, well, not for you , it was just _dirty_ and it was bothering me, so,” Stiles stops when he sees the way Derek’s looking at him. He’s got this puzzled look on his face, eyebrows raised in amusement, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It’s a lot. A lot to be on the receiving end of that look.

              “What,” Stiles asks defensively, leading the way upstairs. He hears Derek mutter behind him.

              “That’s the most you’ve ever talked to me.”

              Stiles stops for a moment, halfway up the stairs. The abruptness of it makes Derek bump into his back, the force of it making Stiles fall, barely catching himself on the next step.

              “Sorry,” they both say at the same time.

              Stiles decides to not comment on what Derek said, choosing instead to fling open the door to his room and wave his arms around like it’s a grand palace.

              Derek’s giving him that look again, that “I think you might be crazy” look that makes him feel all warm and weird inside.

              “Welcome to the Stilinski bachelor pad,” he jokes, walking over to his newly clutter-free desk to pick up his music book. Derek opens his up, as well, standing in the middle of the room, like he’s afraid to move. “Make yourself comfortable, man. Take a seat, whatever you want,” Stiles gestures to the bed, then to the computer chair in front of him.

              “I think we should probably block out our movement the way Finstock taught us, this way we don’t forget.” Derek gives Stiles a long look before toeing off his shoes, and it’s such a strangely intimate thing, for some reason, that Stiles actually looks away while he does it. “Y’know, I’m not really sure why he suggested we run lines. It’s an opera. Everything is singing,” Derek says, flipping through the first pages of the book.

              “I have a pitch pipe,” Stiles reaches into his back pocket, grateful that he remembered to bring it with him when he left school on Friday.

              “Great,” Derek’s still thumbing through the pages of the book, a look of deep concentration that distracts Stiles. He’s not sure what it is about Derek’s face that’s so…appealing? He’s definitely not the adorable freshman that Stiles remembers. He’s taller and darker, cheekbones defined where there used to be soft, stubble-free skin. He kind of looks like a sculpture, Stiles thinks, eyes moving to the strong jawline that he’s been noticing way more than usual lately.

              “So our first scene is after ‘Look Down’, and you’re standing directly next to me,” he says, snapping Stiles out of whatever trance he was just in. “Can you play a G? That’s your starting note.”

              And now Stiles is annoyed for no reason. It’s not like Derek is trying to upset him, or trying to be condescending, but he still can’t fight off his knee-jerk reaction of being irritated every time Derek tells him what to do.

              “I know my note,” Stiles snaps, trying and failing to keep the bite out of it.

              Derek’s shoulders raise a little, and a scowl spreads across his face; a familiar, if not semi-permanent fixture. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

              Stiles blows into the pitch pipe, humming the note for a minute before beginning.

              “ _Now, prisoner 24601, your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means.”_

              Derek shifts into character beside him, and it’s the strangest, most miraculous thing to watch. His face looks haggard, worn, but there’s a light in his eyes as if what Stiles had just sung was really happening.

              “ _Yes, it means I’m free.”_

              They run through the first minute or so, until the song brings them face to face, Stiles roaring “ _Do not forget my name. Do not forget me.”_

              This is always where he loses it. The proximity to Derek overwhelms him, every time, and he can’t help that his heartrate picks up, chest heaving. He’s about to try and fight through it when Derek breathes out and growls, pushing Stiles a little too hard backward.

              “Every single time I think we’re getting better, you just, you _look at me like that_ ,” he yells, walking up to where Stiles has stumbled until their chests are almost touching.

              “Look at you like _what,_ Derek, hm?” Stiles meets him, anger rising with every second. The room feels too hot, and he’s suddenly burning up. His blood feels like it’s on fire.

              “Like you fucking hate me!”

              Stiles feels completely unhinged, every ounce of resentment, jealousy, and whatever else he feels about Derek finally combining and swirling into the perfect storm. “I _do_ hate you, Derek. You’re—you’re rude, conceited, and not as good as you think you are. I’ve hated you since the moment I met you, and I hate that we have to pretend to tolerate each other when we so clearly can’t stand to be in the same room together.”

              Derek’s eyes are murderous when he grabs Stiles by the shirt and slams him up against his door, pushing his body into Stiles and pinning him there.

              “Well, I hate you, too, you selfish fucking _brat,”_ he spits, lips curled over his teeth, nostrils flared.

              “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” Stiles pushes into Derek’s grip, anger morphing into something completely different and equally overwhelming. He realizes with a sudden clarity that he wants Derek to kiss him. Hard. Just hold him there and kiss him until he can’t breathe anymore, until they fall onto the bed and fuck each other out of their system.

              Before Stiles can do something stupid, like smash his mouth against Derek’s, Derek’s fists release his shirt, and then he takes five steps backward like he’s been pushed.

              “Nothing,” he whispers, shrugging before running both of his hands through his black hair. “I’m not gonna do anything about it.”

              Stiles is still pinned to the door, the ghost of Derek’s hands still pressing against his chest.

              “A few more weeks, and I’ll be out of your hair. We—we just have to make it until then and we’ll never have to see each other again, okay?” Derek walks over to Stiles, face pleading. “I need a scholarship. I need to do well, and that means I need you to do well, too. I—I _want_ you to do well.”

              “Yeah, well, no one gives a shit about the dude not playing the lead,” Stiles forces himself away from the wall, pushing at Derek so that he can breathe a little.

              “That’s not true, and you know it,’ and is Derek trying to comfort him right now?

              “Look, I don’t wanna talk about this. It’s been established that you’re better than me, that you’re the one whose gonna go on to do big things. I get it, and if I were a bigger person, I’d even be happy for you, but I can’t be right now. Not when this was the only chance I had at getting into NYU.”

              Derek’s staring at him, looking completely lost. “Mine, too,” he says, finally. Sitting on Stiles’ bed and throwing his head in his hands.

              “You—you’re looking at NYU, too?” Stiles asks, genuinely shocked.

              “Yeah. I visited last year and just completely lost my mind over it.”

              Stiles plops down next to Derek, the fight completely leaving his body.

              “I talked to Finstock about not taking the role,” Derek says it like he can’t even control it. “I—you just, your audition was so much better, and everyone knew it. It didn’t feel right, especially not after I saw your face when you checked the cast list. But he wouldn’t let me give it up.”

              Stiles is staring at him with his mouth open. He tried to turn down the role? For _Stiles?_ Stiles, who had actively hated him since freshman year, and rolled his eyes at everything he said?

              “You don’t hate me, then,” Stiles says, mostly to himself, watching Derek shake his head mechanically. He feels sick. “I’m—I’m such a little shit,” he whines, feeling absolutely miserable.

              “It’s okay.”

              “No, Derek, it’s really not,” he breathes, lifting his head out of his hands to look at Derek, whose hand is rubbing circles on Stiles’ knee. “You—you’ve never once been mean to me. You congratulated me on my part, sat with me through a panic attack, and came over to read lines with me so that Finstock wouldn’t kick me out of the musical. I’ve just been so, God, so fucking _painfully_ jealous of you that I couldn’t see past it and give you a chance.”

              “You’re not the only one who thinks I’m a giant douche,” Derek smiles. It’s a sad one. A resigned one, like he just expects to get treated like crap by people who don’t make an effort to get to know him better.

              “I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you at _all_ , Derek. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you, for never being able to take my head out of my own ass and see you for who you really are.”

              He turns his body towards Derek, knee resting by his hipbone.

              “And who am I, really?”

              Derek’s not looking at him. It’s like he’s waiting for Stiles to turn him away, to say something mean, again.

              Stiles squares his shoulders, sits up straight because he’s determined to make this better, to make himself worthy of even being in the same room as Derek after everything he’s done.

              “You’re the guy who tries to help me on stage because you have two little sisters and you’re used to being responsible for everyone around you. You’re the person who kicked Theo’s ass for that disgusting rumor he spread about Erica. You—you’re the person who shares his music with me in choir whenever I forget mine, who buys Isaac lunch every day because his dad doesn’t give him any money to feed himself. You’re the person who sits with someone through a panic attack. You’re _good,_ Derek. You’re so fucking good, and if you could just forgive me for being too stubborn to see that. I mean, I was like the Michael Phelps of the stubborn Olympics, Derek. The gold medalist at being the worst at—“

              Derek grabs Stiles’ face and kisses him.

              It’s better than it would have been before, when they were both angry and so _wrong._ Stiles pours everything he has into it, pushing Derek back into the bad and settling on top of him, kissing him like he’s making up for every single second he’s wasted.

              Derek moans when Stiles sucks his lower lip into his mouth, tongue running along the slightly dry skin.

              “Fuck, I’ve wanted this forever,” Stiles finally feels safe enough to say it out loud, letting the words fall right into Derek’s mouth before sucking at his tongue. Derek’s hands grab Stiles’ shoulders, and he flips them over.

              “You have no clue,” he says, holding Stiles’ jaw and licking into his open mouth, making him whine and bury his hands in his soft, black hair.

              “I don’t hate you, I never hated you. I just—god, really, _really_ wanted to have sex with you,” he groans when Derek swoops down to bite at the pulse in his neck.

              “When you played Mercutio last year and had to walk around in those _tights, fuck,”_ Derek says, lifting Stiles’ shirt up and off of him before diving down and kissing him completely breathless.

              “I jerked off to you every night when you played Danny Zuko. Remember when I left right after curtain call,” Derek nods against Stiles’ neck, panting as he ruts against him, the friction making Stiles almost lose his train of thought. “Went to touch myself in the bathroom stall. Just, couldn’t stand not being able to touch you.”

              Stiles thinks he’s maybe said too much when Derek lifts his head up to look down at Stiles.

              “Touch me now, then,” he growls, taking Stiles’ hand and guiding it down his body until it’s resting over the bulge in his perfect fucking jeans. He licks his lips before unbuttoning them and reaching past the elastic of his briefs to grab at his dick.

              “So fucking perfect, fuck,” he mumbles, craning his neck to get back at Derek’s mouth.

              He jerks Derek off in long, slow strokes, speeding up when Derek reaches past the waistband of Stiles’ sweatpants, fingers teasing in between him.

              “Shit, yeah,” he sighs, breath catching on a throaty whine. Derek brings his hand back up to his mouth, sucking two fingers inside and coating them with spit before reaching back down and pressing in gently, pointer finger filling him up to the first knuckle.

              “Okay?” Derek asks, keeping still while Stiles adjusts.

              “Yes, yes, so okay. So okay.”

              He picks up his pace, feeling how dangerously close he is to coming already. Derek’s making the most beautiful noises above him, body jerking with every single blur of Stiles’ hand. His fingers are slow and precise, pressing at just the right places, the sensation so good he pushes into it.

              “Shit, I’m gonna,” Derek mutters before his body goes still and he’s coming all over Stiles’ hand and stomach. Stiles follow almost immediately after, and it’s so good that he thinks he blacks out for a moment before Derek’s unfairly gigantic body falls on top of him.

              “Jesus Christ,” Stiles gasps, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him in for a slow kiss. “Should’ve done that like, forever ago.”

              Derek laughs at that. Loud and surprised. Stiles can feel it in his chest where they’re pressed against him.

              “How the hell have I gone four years without making you laugh? That’s such a crime. Listen to you. Look at your freaking face. I’m ashamed.”  

              Derek rolls over onto his side, staring at Stiles with a smile that he wants to _lick._ “Who says you’re funny?”           

              “Oh, so you’re telling me that you don’t think I’m hilarious? What about that prank I played on Finstock last year after _Dracula?_ I don’t think he’s even glanced at a mirror since.”         

              “That prank was juvenile. My personal favorite was your dramatic reenactment of Ben Franklin realizing he had syphilis in health class.”

              “Okay, I call foul, sir. I was watching you and you didn’t even crack a smile!”

              “You were watching me?” Derek’s smile is flirty, eyebrow quirked.

              “I was kind of always…watching you? Like in the least creepy way possible. To be fair, I convinced myself it was hate-watching, so, not guilty.”

              “I was watching you, too. Except I knew exactly why.”

              Stiles’ stomach clenches uncomfortably, another sharp wave of want washing over him.

              “God, I don’t know how I’m gonna handle being around you at school. I’m gonna like, jump your bones every point two seconds.”

              “’M not gonna complain,” Derek practically purrs, arms snaking around Stiles’ body to press him closer.

              “So, can we date? Like, can I put a fucking ring on it already?” Derek freezes beside him. It’s very slight, almost like he just held his breath for too long. “Sorry. Sorry, too fast?”

              “A little, I guess,” Derek winces, pulling Stiles back to him when he tries to separate them. “I’ve…liked you since freshman year, and I don’t want to rush into this. Not with you.”

              “Okay…” Derek’s eyes are burning into him, burning through him, andStiles forces himself to try and understand, to push down on the hot sting of rejection long enough to rationalize everything that Derek’s saying.

              “I really like you, and I don’t want either of us to jump into something if it turns out that, that…I don’t know.” Derek gestures between them, looking frustrated, and something just clicks.

              “You’re worried I just want to have sex with you,” and now he _really_ understands.

              Fuck. Of course Derek would think that because Stiles has said and done literally _nothing_ to convince Derek otherwise.

              Stiles bites down on his jaw, moves so that he’s hovering over Derek, hands on both sides of his head.

              “Okay. First of all, I’ve liked you for probably most of my life, and have just been too stupid to realize it. Even in middle school when I wore cargo shorts and you had a bowl cut. Second of all, yes, I want to have sex with you in all the ways. In every way. You’re fucking stunning and it’s a miracle that I didn’t understand how I felt about you sooner. But thirdly,” Stiles brings one hand up to caress Derek’s cheek, forcing him to maintain eye contact, “I know how hard I’ve made things for you, and I understand why you’re worried. Which is why I’m prepared to make you a deal.”

              Derek raises one eyebrow, looking suspicious. “Yeah? An offer I can’t refuse?”

              “No sex. No kissing until after opening night. Just dates. Like, holding hands and going to the movies and sharing a milkshake dates. Let me prove to you that I want to be with you. The _right_ way.”

              Derek purses his lips, that angry thinking-face completely mesmerizing, even—no, especially now.

              “This is gonna suck. The not touching,” Derek warns, looking doubtful.

              “Can you please say that it’s a deal? I don’t have bulging muscles like you and holding myself up like this is burning my arms.”

              “Okay. Deal.”

              Stiles lets out a relieved sigh and collapses beside Derek. “For the record, I said no kissing, not no touching at _all.”_

* * *

 

 

              “So are you guys like, dating now?” Scott asks Stiles after Derek walks him to class and blushes before walking away, throwing Scott a sheepish smile.

              “Yeah, Scott. I told you almost immediately after it happened,” Stiles reminds him for the third time that week. He’s staring after Derek, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

              “I guess I just…can’t believe it’s actually happening. You guys haven’t even kissed.”              

              “Ugh, _don’t remind_ me. I can’t even look at him sometimes because I wanna kiss that face so bad.”

              “Explain to me again why you can’t?” Allison shows up beside them, grabbing Scott’s hand. Lydia trails behind them, texting with a perfectly manicured nail in between her teeth.

              “Yeah, what’s up with the no-touching?” She chimes in, rubbing her nose against Scott’s and smiling until her dimples are showing, full force.

              “I’m trying to prove to him that it’s not just about wanting his smokin’ hot bod. We made a deal to wait until opening night to do anything sexual because, after how big of a dick I was to him, I could at—“

              “At least wait to take his,” Lydia interrupts, and Stiles’ entire face goes hot. Scott and Allison stifle a giggle.       

              “Thank you, Lydia. Excellent commentary. You should write softcore porn.”

              Lydia barely looks up from her phone, only acknowledging Stiles by flipping her hair onto her other shoulder. “Doesn’t seem necessary. The deal,” she clarifies when everyone suddenly stops to look at her. “You guys saw Derek, right? Am I the only one who can ready body language? He’s two seconds away from pulling you into a storage closet for an embarrassingly fast sex session, Stiles.”

             

* * *

 

         

    It’s almost impossible. They’re on their eight date, exactly one week away from opening night, and Derek looks like he’s running a 104 degree fever. Stiles isn’t doing much better. His dad is working a double shift at the station, so they’re camped out in the living room, watching a _Buffy_ marathon. They’re carefully not touching because even a brush of their knees makes them both shiver.

              Derek’s hand is digging into the leather of the couch, leaving little crescent moons on the arm rest. “I honestly didn’t even realize that the TV was still on,” he grits out, leg bouncing frantically, just like Stiles’ is.

              “Jesus, Derek. Should we just call it a night? This isn’t even a date, its _torture.”_ Stiles reaches for the remote and turns the television off, the room silent except for the humming of their bodies.

              “I’m already like, obsessed with you,” Derek whispers, staring at his knees.

              “Dude, I’ve been obsessed with you since you saved Erica’s cat from that coyote. Probably before that.”

              “So then what was the point of this deal?”

              “Because I messed up. I was selfish and I wasn’t somebody that you deserve. All I did was antagonize you because I couldn’t handle my feelings. I wanted you to know that it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just about your looks or your talent. It was all of you.”

              Derek’s kneeling in front of him, now, looking up and searching Stiles’ face. “I believe you. Because you’ve proven it, not just because I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin if I don’t touch you. I believe you _and_ I also really, really, really want to have sex with you. A lot.”

              “Are you calling off the deal,” Stiles licks his lips, feeling his last ounce of resolve slipping right through his fingers. Derek nods his head frantically. “I need you to say it. I can’t make this call, Derek. It has to be you.”

              “Stiles, for fuck’s sake. The deal is off. It was a stupid deal and unnecessary, I’m realizing. Now if you don’t kiss me right now I might actually spontaneously burst into flames.”

              Stiles jumps into his lap, pushing Derek onto the floor, melting over his body. They kiss so hard that they forget to breathe, little black dots beginning to dance in Stiles’ vision until he pulls away and gulps in a lungful of air.

              “This deal _was_ so stupid,” He breathes into Derek’s mouth.

              “So stupid.” Derek’s hands are wild on him, squeezing and pulling and scratching the skin of Stiles’ back under his t-shirt. “Can I fuck you?”

              Stiles nods his head so fast that he gets dizzy, letting Derek steady him as they get to their feet and fumble their way up the stairs and into his room. The second the door closes, Stiles wraps his legs around Derek, arms latching onto his shoulders as he twists them around so that Stiles’ back is pressed up against the wall.

              “Lube? Condoms?” Derek asks while mouthing at Stiles’ neck. He points frantically at the desk beside them, completely unable to speak, and suddenly he’s being carried over to the desk, Derek knocking everything off of the surface and laying Stiles down on it.

              “First drawer.”

              He hears the wood creak, hears the crinkle of the condom packet and his stomach fills with almost violent anticipation.

              “Stiles, I can’t,” Derek’s hands are shaking too much, the condom a blur in his hand. He sits up, legs still wrapped around him, sliding Derek’s pants and briefs down just enough to get his dick free, then steadies himself before slipping it on.

              He thrusts into Stiles’ hand, biting down hard on his lips to muffle a moan. Stiles strokes Derek a few times before pulling his own pants down to his knees where they’re pretzeled around his.

              They move clumsily. Stiles is aware that, from an outside perspective, they look like fumbling idiots, rushing their way through sex because they can’t bear to take their time, which isn’t entirely incorrect.

              It’s a lot of years getting squeezed into a single moment. The way Derek rips his and Stiles’ shirt off, the way Stiles holds Derek’s hand steady as he opens him up with two fingers. They’re both shaking, and there’s a fuzzy, insistent buzz in Stiles’ chest that might be words he’s trying not to say, like _I need you, I love you, I want to marry you._ All the ridiculous, true-but-heavy things he’s been thinking and feeling. Things for another time.

              “I’m ready, Derek, fuck, I’m ready, come on,” Stiles pulls Derek back onto him, biting hard at his shoulder when he feels the wet slide of Derek’s dick on the inside of his thigh.

              “I’m not gonna last even two seconds inside of you,” Derek moans, guiding himself in, a low whine escaping him when he pushes all the way inside.

              “Fuuuuuck,” Stiles almost cries, hands pulling Derek’s head down into his neck, biting down while he thrusts. It’s the absolute strangest, most glorious sensation that Stiles has ever felt. Derek’s smell, his body, his mouth, is all around him, drowning him, breathing life into him, and if he’s never been so _gone_ over anyone in his entire fucking life.

              The desk is making an ominous creaking sound as Derek’s movements get faster and harder. Stiles can barely hear it over their constant moaning. “Desk is…gonna…break, Derek.”

              Wordlessly, Derek picks him up, slamming him against the door and continuing to fuck him.

              “Jesus…fucking…christ,” Derek says, hands going down to grip Stiles’ ass as he slams into him. Stiles’ back is sticking to the door, the sounds of them fucking so obscene that he can’t close his mouth or do anything except hold onto Derek, letting the world shrink down to the size of their bodies pressed together, of Stiles’ hand pulling at Derek’s hair.

              “I love you,” he whispers, tonguing the sensitive skin behind Derek’s ear, and Derek goes still, mouth open and just _pressing_ into Stiles’ neck as he comes. Stiles reaches in between them, touching himself for only a moment before Derek is slapping his hand away, replacing it with his own.

              He comes almost instantly, back arching against the wall before they both melt into each other. Derek’s still holding Stiles up, his hands having made their way from his ass to the small of his back.

              “I love you.” Derek finally says.

              “You know, Javert and Valjean are totally gay for each other,” he muses, pressing his mouth against the pulse point on Derek’s neck. He carries them over to Stiles’ bed and lays beside him.

              “I think Finstock cast it this way on purpose.”

              “Yeah, well, joke’s on him. We’re in love now and it’s still gonna be impossible to work with you, but for a completely different reason. For a boner and fluffy feelings reason.”

              Shut _up,_ ” Derek blushes.

              Stiles doesn’t. Ever again.


End file.
